He had been an odd kid, or so he had been told by everybody and anybody. He didn’t cry much, he was gregarious and he loved the night. He never feared it and never needed a night light. He was energized by it. Thus, it figures that he was not an early bird. Yet, he never wanted a nighttime shift job. He didn’t mind waking up early for work if it meant that he could stay up at night communing with the night sky.
He lived for the night and for talking to the moon. He tried to photograph it every night, if possible. He had grown up with the high hope that one day she would end up signaling to him that she was indeed ok.
And then she did. It was unbelievable. Now he wanted her to talk to him again.
He turned away from his camera at the touch of the hand.
“Mr. Boyle. It’s time to go back inside.”
He nodded. Then stood still as they put his scalp back on.